


An Inconvenient Gentleness

by FhimeChan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-31 22:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan
Summary: Six times Aziraphale and Crowley don't hold hands and one they do.





	An Inconvenient Gentleness

**Author's Note:**

> For @beruangwithme, who requested a story about the small gestures between Aziraphale and Crowley. I hope you like it!
> 
> I apologize if there are any grammar mistakes, I didn't have the time to have it checked ._.

In the beginning there were no fingers.

Well, it would have been hard for fingers to appear, considering there weren’t _ humans _ to begin with, but the important thing is the fingers. Keep it in mind. Fingers.

Instead, there was She. Or rather, She Was, and because She Was there were angels, and planets, and demons. After a while, there were humans.

In the garden, Crawley studied Adam and Eve. He observed them carefully. He had questions, and when the questions remained unanswered and he somehow found himself Fallen, he had enough. He answered them himself, adopting a human shape.

And he discovered the fingers.

Of course, he appreciated his body in its entirety. He had long legs, which he loved to shove forward, feeling the movement in his hips. He had hair, and had a blast with dye, and curls, and braids.

But fingers. Fingers were something else. Even at the very beginning, even before he discovered what humans could do with them, Crowley knew. Fingers had _ power _.

She made fingers, and Crowley wasn't sure if they were an accidental gift given to humans in Her image, or if She planned them for Her entertainment. Probably the latter.

* * *

It is a long time before Crowley lowers his defences, and a even longer one before he stumbles in front of Aziraphale.

Later he will say that it was all part of his plan. Almost falling off the empty stage where Hamlet was about to climb? Of course it was premeditated. Crowley was foreshadowing the failure of the play. Obviously.

The point is, Aziraphale catches him with a hand. One moment there is nothing but air around him, the next moment unexpectedly strong fingers are wrapped around Crowley’s arm. It’s the first time Aziraphale has touched him. Actually, it’s the first time anyone has touched him. Ever.

And it's a touch to keep Crowley safe.

It’s fitting that Aziraphale's grip is at once strong and gentle. What else was he expecting from the first and best swordsman, who gave away his weapon at the first chance? Crowley feels his muscles relax, inviting Aziraphale's fingers deeper into his skin, as if all the layers of fabric between them were nothing.

The problem is that, in the meantime, the rest of Crowley regains its balance and Aziraphale lets him go. _ He lets him go _. And he continues to walk, his hands busy gesturing at the theatre, showing Crowley the trap door, the curtains and a lot of other insignificant stuff. He’s saying something about how all those things has to be Divine, and Crowley is automatically arguing that they may be Hellish depending on their use, and he is doing his best to pretend that his world hasn't shifted irrevocably.

He thinks that fingers must be the same, that they had to belong to Her or to The Adversary depending on their use.

Because Aziraphale's touch soothed, but its absence burns like hell.

* * *

The next time, it's because of the crepes. Sigh. Of course it is.

The angel, or rather, The Angel, likes soft things, so soft that they fall apart on his fingers, and, since the time is not ready for bloody napkins, it’s not Crowley’s fault if the crumbles end up on his shirt. Actually, he has done a great job in not losing more pieces over his clothes.

Crowley mentally notes that he should delay the tissue invention, because there's something inherently evil in letting people drop sticky food all over themselves.

He's looking around for a towel or something else more age-appropriate, so he sees the touch coming. He’s lucky, because if he weren’t prepared he would have missed most of it.

Aziraphale brushes his hand over Crowley’s shoulders while he chews enthusiastically on his crepe. It’s perfunctory but still gentle, and how could it not be, considering that it’s an act of service? And it’s all for Crowley.

Aziraphale swallows his food and continues his conversation - well, rant - about cheese and smoked salmon, and Crowley nods and answers in all the appropriate places. At this point he has had a lot of practice in talking with Aziraphale, so he can do it even with less than half of his brain online, which is just lucky.

* * *

There are years, decades, centuries, what feels like thousands of years but isn’t, of nothing. Aziraphale walks close, but is always appropriately just out of reach in a typical Victorian way.

It's maddening.

But while an angel can casually brush his fingers over every creature, demons included, sharing Her love with the universe, a demon can't, simply can't, be that blatantly affectionate. Can a demon take a lover? Yes, sure, Hell would appreciate him taking at least one, possibly two or three. But can he share a single gentle touch? Never.

If only the idea of touching Aziraphale in any way but gently could appeal to Crowley.

* * *

Ice creams are the solution. In restaurants, they have to sit respectably apart, but there's no such thing with messy ice cream queues, especially if children are involved.

Their shoulders brush, and Crowley waits to see if Aziraphale has any sort of reaction. No, he accepts the gentle pressure of shoulder against shoulder with indifference, and doesn't flinch away when Crowley presses closer, tempting luck. It's just a brief contact, 15 seconds top, but it quiets Crowley's mind like anything else.

It's a fixed point in everchanging times, a small assurance that no, he isn't alone, he doesn't have to fight the whole armies of hel... heaven alone. Silly, how physicality grounds. But Earth is physical, and Crowley can't settle for pure spirituality. He needs to feel his emotions on his skin.

It's over too soon, but the summer is hot, and it's easy enough to manipulate Aziraphale into more queues. Crowley doesn't even have to lie about his love for ice cream, which as a demonic manipulation is a complete failure, but Crowley is way beyond caring.

* * *

The Apocalypse is messy in more than one way.

They spend a lot of time together, and Crowley _ breaks _ and pins Aziraphale to a wall, because what else is he supposed to be when Aziraphale is accusing him of being nice, after refusing him, after Crowley has spent six thousands of years trying not to touch him in any way that could be mistaken as such?

Aziraphale doesn't seem to register the action, relaxed as if Crowley hasn't breached their centuries long absence of touch, and Crowley wants-

But they are interrupted.

* * *

The handshake doesn't count because it's a miracle and Crowley blocks any sensation which may come out of it. He won't admit to Her that miracles are _ nice _. Not now that they have Their Side.

* * *

It's only after the Apocalypse, when they're toasting and pointless chattering how only humans do, when Aziraphale's eyes are still crinkled at the edges for his resurrected bookshop, that Crowley realizes he could simply… ask.

"Do you think fingers are a diabolical invention?"

Sometimes, Aziraphale is exceedingly dumb and would mistake a murderous crowd for some gentlemen enjoying a Sunday trip. Sometimes, he's dumb enough to bypass all the pointless layers of deflection and act.

He moves his fingers few inches to the left, covering Crowley's hand with his own. No rush, no perfunctory cleaning, no miracles involved. Crowley can feel each phalanx gently wrapped around his skin, pushed both by mere gravity and, more importantly, by Aziraphale's desire to hold Crowley.

Crowley flexes his own fingers experimentally, captivated by how his movement makes Aziraphale's fingers move in response, and thinks that gravity is one of Her best inventions.

"Shadwell thought his finger was a gift from Her."

Aziraphale looks at him as if he expects an answer, because, yes, he's that dumb. As if Crowley would be able to speak right now.

When the silence stretches, Aziraphale frowns and glances down. “Oh.”

His hand starts to slide away, and there's something akin to pain in the set of his mouth, in the widening of his eyes. Before it could settle into a more definite expression, Crowley turns his hand and grabs him.

Now he's the one holding Aziraphale, encapsulating his hand into a tiny section of space that is marked by Crowley, and it feels wonderful. He cradles Aziraphale's hand gently, as if it's the most precious thing in the world. It may actually be.

"Oh."

Aziraphale swallows. He seems to run out of words. He opens his hand, intertwines his fingers with Crowley's and smiles in satisfaction, as if that was a job well done.

Crowley squeezes, and Aziraphale squeezes back.

* * *

Crowley still don't know if fingers are actually Divine or just for the Divine Entertainment, but he's positive that his were meant to hold Aziraphale.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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